


The Day Before Tomorrow

by Tokumeisan



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Angst, M/M, well angst-ish any way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 06:09:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokumeisan/pseuds/Tokumeisan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takao doesn't take the aftermath of the Rakuzan match very well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Day Before Tomorrow

 

  Takao watches the orange ball arc through the air, underneath the lights as a black shadow, and into the basket as three points amidst loud cheers from the audience and the stifling tenseness of his teammates, and gapes. The score gap gets a little bit more daunting to overcome, and it’s a few precious seconds before he shouts and rallies himself and lunges for the ball again.

  As he runs on the court, basketball shoes squeaking against the polished floor, he sneaks a glance at the boy who performed that three-pointer. It’s unlike anything he’s ever seen before. His team is good, he’ll give that, but he’d truly never seen someone shoot from the middle of the court, nor had he imagined the possibility. It was superhuman. Unreal.

  It was unreal, it was beautiful, awesome even, and Takao hated him for it. That display of skill stuck out like a bright orange stream in his mind and replayed itself, over and over, the calm confidence of the green-haired bespectacled boy clothed in the sky and the clouds, the precise curve of the fingers, the stretch of the legs as he jumps.

  Ah, no, it can’t be, he’s spacing off in the middle of the game, and the last part was real, it was another basket, there’s the roar from the audience again and the stress he feels is a little more palpable now, his captain is eying their opponent, cornered like a buck in the headlights.

  He skips around the blond pretty-boy and tries for the ball again, but he fails spectacularly and gets back his balance just in time to see him attempt a dunk. It’s only slightly better than a passing grade, not impressive like all dunks usually were- certainly less impressive than those insane three-pointers, and he grins to himself despite the fact that they’re officially sixty-something points behind and the captain is yelling at them to regroup, change of formations, they’re going on defense.

  He had barely gone halfway across the court before the number seven flies off into the air again, delivering another blow to their pride as a basketball team, another three-pointer he seemed so damn fond of making and was so damn good at and their opponent’s score goes up another three points and their captain seems ready to cry. They weren’t even _in_ the formation yet.

  Takao’s eyes capture the ball soaring in slow motion even as he stares out of his peripheral. Hopelessness catches up with him a little and he feels a rare twinge of envy. He’d never been able to pull off three-pointers, even though he played point guard and was, most of the time, dancing on the outside of their half of the court. The shots number seven made were powerful and ridiculously, exaggeratedly high, as crazy as the boy’s hair, and landed in the basket like sure arcs of victory.

  He wishes, as the beep at the end of the game sounds and green-haired spectacles landed on the floor with a loud thump, that he could do that too.

  (Later, at the lockers, he would ask about their opponent, and his coach would berate him for not listening properly at briefing, then finally give in and tell him that _that_ was Teikou, and he had faced the Generation of Miracles, who upheld the school’s motto ‘Ever victorious’ like no other team of Teikou had. He would ask, also, why he was smiling like he just got a hundred presents for Christmas.)

  (Even later, in his room in front of the computer screen, he would learn that jersey number seven was Midorima Shintarou, shooting guard of the Generation of Miracles, and Takao would let a slow grin that was hideous for its’ worth in poison spread all over his face like butter over toast, and declare to himself quietly that he hated, hated _hated **hated**_ , that stupid slightly arrogant calm face that _dared_ to remain expressionless when he had steamrolled over his team like that.)

  (And finally, at Shuutoku, on his first day when he was looking at the class rosters, trying to figure out which class he belonged in, he would spot that name that he had despised with vehemence for two whole years in neat little characters and bark out a bitter laugh. Fate had a cruel sense of humour.)

  (He would take back his words and make a new promise to himself as he sees the green-haired boy on the court after practice shooting three-pointer after three-pointer, and his determination will turn him in another direction. But until then, he will laugh.)

* * *

 

  “No one that opposes me is allowed to look down on me.”

  Takao watches the orange ball arc through the air, underneath the lights as a black shadow, and into the basket as three points amidst loud cheers from the audience and the stifling tenseness of his teammates, and gapes. The ball that swished into the net behind him didn’t come from Shin-chan’s hands; no, it’s red and gold eyes that stare down impassively at him now, calm in their confidence, infuriating in their arrogance, and he speaks as if he owned him.

  “Know your place.”

  It’s still blue and white he is staring at, but the figure under them is shorter, less intimidating and more terrifying, and the look on his face is not proud of his work, the three-pointer that brings victory. No, it’s boredom he’s seeing, even as the red-head lands and regroups for his next attack.

  Rakuzan’s captain mocks his ace and his pride, and he fights down the impulse to give the damn midget a kick in his shins.

  He spares a glance at the scoreboard— 42-39, in Rakuzan’s favour, and he thinks that maybe, it won’t be too bad- they have Shin-chan, they have Miyaji-san, they have Kimura-san, they have Ootsubo-san, they are one of the three kings of Tokyo, and above all, they want to win! They will win!

  But even as Shin-chan hits the polished floor behind him, he doubts. The comforting swish of his ace’s three-pointers aren’t there anymore. He runs to help him up; Miyaji-san tells him to get _up_ and _quit wallowing,_ Kimura-san tells them to look, look at their school’s banner, and remember what their school’s motto is.

  “Never give up.” he answers, and Shin-chan nods beside him.

  “Damn straight we won’t!” Miyaji-san yells from the side, even as Ootsubo-san tells them to regroup, and start with a point. Yes, he _will_ send Shin-chan a roaring pass and help his ace score victory, or die in the goddamn process!

  Shin-chan pulls him back on his feet; tells him to help, to show Rakuzan what they’ve got. His heart leaps a little as his ace gets into a shooting position. They will win now, twenty-point difference be damned; his eyes pause but for a second to calculate the strength and distance required, and then the ball is shooting through the air and into the basket, and the fiercest grin he’s ever made spreads across his face. He and Shin-chan does it again, and even Rakuzan’s captain looks a tiny bit surprised.

  Good, be surprised, you who scorn my pride, he thinks angrily, and rallies for another pass. The tall brunet pretty-boy tries to block him, and he snickers. Do they think he will shoot? The ball moves sideways and upwards, into his ace’s hands, and goes for the hoop. The audience roars.

  Ah, but what’s this? Rakuzan’s captain is shooting into his own basket, and Rakuzan’s captain is offering to gouge his eyes out if Rakuzan does not bring home victory. It’s not only him who is chilled to the marrow by the insanity on the red-head’s face; even Shin-chan looks amazed, though the expression changes quickly to resignation and then determination.

  “There is no way we will lose to you guys.” Rakuzan’s captain smiles a smile that is both confidence and pity and he hates how beautifully reminiscent that smile is- it looks like his ace’s faith and is all the more insulting because of that.

  Evidently Rakuzan is taking their captain seriously; they are running harder, dribbling faster, scoring better, and the red-head tells them that they will no longer be able to touch the ball. Shin-chan makes a noise of disbelief beside him; he narrows his eyes and glares.

  “Don’t look down on us,” he roars, and jubilantly speeds past the two people who are guarding him and makes for Shin-chan. He passes furiously, but there are the red and gold eyes again, and they look angry as a hand moves to intercept the ball.

  “Did you not hear me?” His heart pounds quicker in his ears; he is not sure whether that is fury or fear. “I am absolute.”

  He is left stunned as the red-head circles easily past him and scores and begins to explain their own move to them. He realizes then that he had been trapped in an illusion from the very beginning, and he hates himself for that.

  He turns and the pretty-boy is coming up, ready to shoot, but Miyaji-san is shouting loudly from the side as he leaps to intercept him. Too late; even he himself realizes that it was a fake; there is a hungry smile on the pretty-boy’s face and he had already fouled him. The macho man on Rakuzan shouts exuberantly; Rakuzan makes shot after shot after shot, and even as he sees Shin-chan on the ground Rakuzan’s captain scores a buzzer beater while murmuring that his ace will not reach, would not reach-

  (It’s all his own damn fault.)

  “Sleep, veteran king.”

* * *

 

  The way back on the rickshaw is quiet and awkward, but for once Takao doesn’t try to fix it; mainly because he’s too far gone in his own misery to feel anything, as well as the fact that he simply can’t bring himself to meet Midorima’s eyes.

  “Good work today, first years. You did your best,” Ootsubo-san tells them after they’ve finished changing, and informs them that he’ll deal with the rest of Shuutoku. His captain gives him a quick pat on the back and a gentle squeeze on the shoulder for Midorima. Midorima dips his head stoically, in direct contrast to the tear tracks on his face, and he himself gives a trembling smile in response. Oostubo-san smiles back at him- it’s a testament to his captain’s mental maturity as to how his smile did not waver for a second, he remembers thinking- and goes back into Shuutoku’s locker room.

  (Even as he leaves, he hears audible sobbing in the changing room and the slam of a fist into a locker door, followed by a brittle string of profanities. Oostubo-san is nowhere to be heard.)

  “Sorry ‘bout the match, Shin-chan,” he tells his ace once he’s sure that they’re more than three quarters of the way to Midorima’s house. He doesn’t turn around to see what Midorima‘s expression may be. He isn’t sure if he could hurt anymore, but he isn’t interested in testing if he can.

  There are, of course, more things he can say on the subject- fouling Mibuchi, for example, and his general failure as a partner, but some things are best left unsaid.

  (Best for him, at any rate, a pompously cheerful voice nags at him in his head, and he snarls at it.)

  He hears the wooden planks of the rickshaw squeak. Strange; Midorima usually remained a statue all the way back home.

 (But regardless, he still shows up at Midorima’s front door early next morning with the rickshaw lugging behind his bicycle. He reasons with himself that he needs the leg training anyway.)

  (He still can’t get himself to muster the full face grin he usually has on every day, though, and the way to school is as silent as a street court in the middle of the night. Midorima’s face is blank, and he notes that with some trepidation as he helps the bespectacled boy load the golden kitsune statue off the rickshaw.)

* * *

 

 

  Basketball practice the day after the match isn’t much quieter than usual, considering that his senpai all went somewhere to revise for their university entrance exams and there is an apparent lack of Miyaji-san shouting at Midorima. The gloom in the air spreads like miasma, however, and even his coach has a slightly heavy look on his face.

  Takao goes through the drills on autopilot. Running, dribbling, lay-ups, shooting (he stays extra long at the shooting drills), but when passing drills come up he averts his eyes from Midorima and randomly grabs a shoulder.

  The owner of the random shoulder gives him a pat and a few words of condolence after the drill and Takao gives him a bright smile, from ear to ear, like the one he usually has on, and assures him that he’s all right, he’ll just work harder, practice harder, and he won’t lose the next time~!

  He pretends he doesn’t hear Midorima’s footsteps come towards him and then stop.

  (When Takao goes to look for the rickshaw after practice, he finds it gone from its’ parking place. It’s strange, he thinks, and then shrugs his shoulders.)

 

* * *

 

 

  Two days after the match, Takao finds a sheet of paper folded in neat quarters sitting in his locker. He opens it, and nearly shreds the thing to bits.

  ‘There is no shame in falling down. True shame is to not stand up again.’

  ‘Oostubo’

  ‘Sorry about the perfumed stationery. The class rep had nothing else.’

  He smells his hand, swears, and then really shreds the note to bits.

  (He doesn’t need to take this bullshit from anyone, he thinks darkly, as he slams the door to his locker shut, especially not when he’s trying his damndest to improve his three point shots.)

  (He considers, briefly, as he stands under the cold shower and tries scrubbing his hands with his body wash, if he should start wrapping his left hand in bandages just to see if it would help, and gives himself a light slap for even thinking in that direction.)

  (Obviously, it didn’t work.)

  (Then he feels horrible for letting _that_ cross his mind and then runs out of the showers, stopping only to put his clothes on, back into the gym, and attempts even more baskets from the three point line. When he leaves, he hears the crushing silence of a room long deserted.)

* * *

 

 

  The day after that, Takao finds a basket decorated with red ribbon sitting in his locker just before morning practice. Inside the basket were a lot of cherry tomatoes, as well as two pieces of paper, one folded at haphazard angles and the other rolled up and stuck into the red fruit.

  The first one read: ‘Nakatani told Oostubo, who told Miyaji, who told me that you were moping around at practice. According to biology, cherry tomatoes are supposed to make one happy; eat them and go fix whatever it is that’s wrong with you.’

  ‘Unless you want me to send Miyaji. He won’t be happy about it.’

  ‘Kimura’

  The second one was a lot less nice.

  ‘Coming to practice tomorrow. You’d better make it worth the trip of delivering the damn basket from Kimura’s place and back. I don’t have as much time as you do.’

  ‘Miyaji’

  He feels his long forgotten grin spread, and pops a cherry tomato into his mouth. It was slightly tart, but pleasant nonetheless, and he walks into morning practice with a whistle on his lips.

  (He feels so cheerful, somehow, that by the end of practice he’s done twice of everything, three times the shooting drills, and distributed the basket of cherry tomatoes amongst most of his team members. He even feels lighthearted enough to dump the basket over Midorima’s head, along with the rest of the cherry tomatoes.)

  (The look on Midorima’s face is priceless, though he can’t for the life of him describe what was going on with the bespectacled boy’s face.)

  (How odd.)

* * *

 

 

  Takao finds Miyaji-san fanning himself with an idol fan in the locker room after afternoon practice four days after the match. “Kiss and make up with Midorima,” he demands by way of a greeting, and waits patiently while Takao laughs, splutters, and nearly scrapes his head on his locker door.

  “Miyaji-san is very motherly today,” he gasps when he manages to get a breath down his throat, and promptly loses it again when Miyaji-san scowls at him.

  “Snap out of it,” his blond senior barks eventually, and Takao tones his hysterics down to quiet chuckles. “Like I said, whatever it is that’s wrong between the two of you, you’re going to solve it by tomorrow. I’m not going to let you drag down the team’s morale.”

  “But I practice properly!” He protests indignantly. “And do all the drills. And stuff. And-”

  Miyaji-san snorts derisively and crosses his legs. “Don’t test me. Shuutoku needs to know that their ace and his partner are still standing strong.” He adds another sentence that was unintelligible, but what was left of Takao’s grin had slid cleanly off his face.

  “Oh yeah. That.” He nods thoughtfully. “Well then Midorima’ll have to do without a partner, wouldn’t he?” He watches Miyaji-san go slack-jawed with little to no glee and closes his locker door. “If there’s nothing else-“

  “Just stay here, would you?” Miyaji-san growls, and scrutinizes Takao for a good while before he speaks again. “This had better not be about the Winter Cup.”

  “It’s not.” The answer was swift, immediate, and takes even himself by surprise. “Midorima _doesn’t_ need a partner to bring Shuutoku to victory.” He sees Miyaji-san’s left eye twitch slightly, but he ploughs on anyway. “He scores better on his own. He doesn’t need a partner to bring him down.”

  (The unspoken word, of course, is that Midorima doesn’t need _him_ to bring him down, but Takao thinks Miyaji-san’ll understand. The facts are obvious.)

  Miyaji-san glares at him and he matches it with an equally baleful stare of his own. “And who gave you leave to decide that?”

  “Past experience.” he answers quietly.

  “Then past experience,” his senior replies, almost tiredly, “would’ve told you that that brat considers no one on his team as a hindrance. Last time I heard, that includes you. Do you even listen to him when you chatter about him all damn day?”

  “Midorima’s very positive about all this,” he counters. “Maybe he and you should take into account that I was responsible for Shuutoku’s loss? Faulty passes? Fouls? Ring any bells?”

  “If you keep on being arrogant I’ll pelt you with pineapples.”

  “Yessir.” It’s a conditioned response by now, after approximately eight months of playing at Shuutoku and getting yelled at by Miyaji-san and occasionally Kimura-san, and he laughs a little while Miyaji-san frowns at him confusedly.

  “Are you mocking me?” he snarls, and Takao shakes his head.

  “I’m just saying that if you insist that Midorima must have a partner, then you could pick someone from the reserve team. Put me back on reserve in Uetani’s place or something; he makes a pretty good point guard too.”

  (Better than me, his eyes say, but Miyaji-san is already looking at him as if he had gone madder than usual.)

  “You’re stupider today,” he remarks wonderingly. “You know that no one else can handle Midorima without bursting a blood vessel but you, right?”

  (Sounds true, the slightly more logical side of his brain piped up, but he keeps his face as blank as he can anyway.)

  “The brat doesn’t exactly want anyone else, either,” Miyaji-san adds while Takao’s jaw unhinges itself, “so could you stop putting Oostubo in awkward positions? He’s got enough on his plate at the moment.”

  (There was something nonchalant in Miyaji-san’s tone that made Takao wonder if the extra shooting practice had finally shot his perceptional ability to pieces, so he gives himself the requisite hard pinch. The answering pain was enough to convince him that he wasn’t dreaming.)

  Miyaji-san uncrosses his legs and stands up. “And well, it’d be kind of stupid to put the next captain on reserve, wouldn’t it?” He stretches luxuriously, felt for his fan, and turns to leave while Takao makes a few noises like a stranded fish.

  “By the way, if it’s of any interest to you,” he adds over his shoulder, “it's Midorima who put me up to this.”

  (Takao thinks he hears ‘Get it done by tomorrow, you hear?’ through the closed door, but he’s too busy standing in a dazed stupor in front of his locker to answer.)

  (He feels something wet slide down his face, and wonders absentmindedly why people cry when they are happy.)

* * *

 

  The next day, Takao sees Shin-chan standing rigidly in front of his own locker after practice.

  “Shin-chan,” he greets the green-haired ace cheerfully, and laughs when Shin-chan looks mildly surprised and pleased.

  “How was practice?” he hears his ace ask gingerly as Takao opens his locker door and finds another note, folded neatly into quarters.

  “Ehhh, but you know, Shin-chan!” he pouts. “You _were_ watching me properly, weren’t you?”

  He laughs while Shin-chan splutters and grouches some unintelligible response and unfolds the note. (He is beginning to suspect that all the secrets of the world are hidden in his locker.)

  ‘Just a heads up: Miyaji bullied the first string into locking you and Midorima in the lockers. The second and third windows from the left above the lockers will be open at seven thirty. You know what to do before that.’

  ‘Oostubo’

  ‘Miyaji adds that he’s not a messenger boy and would you please not treat him as such the next time.’

  He stares at it in disbelief, and right on cue the lock of the door clicks.

  “This is ridiculous,” Shin-chan mutters beside him. “They’ve actually locked us in- why are you grinning like an idiot, Takao?”

  He checks his watch. Six twenty-seven.

  “Shin-chan,” he smiles invitingly. “Let’s talk."

**Author's Note:**

> But really does the boy even angst about anything


End file.
